The Country Gentleman Read Free Page B

looked up, finishing, “Whose lands apparently adjoin those of my great uncle.”
    Mrs. Insel, who did not appear to share her friend’shilarity, inquired, “But surely you may sell it? It is not to pass to Mr.—Mr. Highet for nothing?”
    “As I read it, it is indeed.”
    “But how unkind of your great uncle. To offer such a gift, yet at the same time remove it by his terms.”
    “I am relieved to hear you say so; for a moment I half feared, from the seriousness of your countenance, that you intended to suggest I accept the bargain.”
    “No, indeed not. It is only that I dislike to see such a boon pass through your hands.”
    “Your concern is generous,” Anne smiled, “but pray recollect this particular boon is, thank heaven, as unneeded by us as it was unlooked for. If we accepted only half the invitations we receive to stop in the country we should never be in London at all; what use have we for an estate? I know nothing of farming and less of Cheshire, and the more I think of that the better I like it. Imagine passing ten months a year in the country—the deepest country! It makes one’s blood run cold. Why, every thing to make life agreeable, to give it order and pleasure”—Maria knew she thought of Ensley—“is in London. And consider: it must be a two days’ journey at least from here to Chester. That would leave us…let me see, taking July and August in town, since they are the two longest together—fifty-eight days in London annually. Good God! ’Tis not to be thought of.” And she rose at once to go to a large library table. “I shall tell Mr. Dent I decline the legacy with respectful thanks,” she went on, sitting down and collecting paper and pen, “and you and I, my dear, will never mention this painful, I may even say cruel, suggestion again.” She dipped her pen. “‘3 July, 1816,’” she read aloud as she wrote. “‘My dear Mr. Dent—’”
    “You don’t suppose we ought at least to visit the property before you refuse it,” Maria suggested timidly. “After all, the Season will shortly dwindle to nothing, and we might spare a week or two—”
    “Have you forgot we are engaged to go down to Devonshire?” Anne interrupted rather sharply.
    Mrs. Insel had not forgot. Lord and Lady Bambrick had invited them, and Lord Ensley was to be there too, until Parliament reconvened. At which time, Mrs. Insel had no doubt, Anne would discover some business to bring her back to town as well. Maria sighed. She would have been glad to see a little less, all in all, of Lord Ensley. She esteemed him very much; but she could not help feeling he had done her friend an ill service over the years. His constant attendance on Anne had done more than delay his own marriage: it had impeded—practically speaking, had prevented—hers. In the last weeks, moreover, Mrs. Insel had heard, not rumours exactly, but hints, intimations of the coming of an announcement she doubted very much Miss Guilfoyle was prepared for. Though perhaps she was prepared; perhaps Ensley had told her. One couldn’t know with them, they were very deep and secret together. At all events, she let drop the idea of a visit to Cheshire. Really, it was an impossible offer. Mr. Herbert Guilfoyle must surely have been a quite impossible man.
    Mrs. Insel was roused from these thoughts by a fresh burst of laughter from her friend, who had lifted her pen and sat gazing at her. “It has just occurred to me to wonder,” she said, “what manner of person Mr. Highet, Gentleman, might be. Unless he is a saint, I cannot suppose he would have been very happy to meet his new neighbours—had we accepted, that is to say. He would very probably have done what he could to make Cheshire aliving Hell for us. Careless of my great uncle not to foresee that.”
    “Perhaps Mr. Highet is unaware of the terms of the will,” Maria suggested.
    “Perhaps. I wonder. My great uncle seems to have had little doubt he would fulfill its conditions. From